He Runs (Part One) (3 page)

              ‘Put the knife down!’ commands a voice.

              Man jumps up, turns on the spot, facing every direction, the green and brown smudges of forestry blurring into a real-life watercolour. His knife hand is moving, rotating at the joint with the back of the blade resting against his forearm.

              ‘Who’s there?’ asks Man, ‘show yourself!’

              ‘Behind you!’ states the voice, which Man deciphers as being male.

              Man turns, shakes his head, his good eye concentrating on the blurred world in front of him. He sees Hound, standing on his hind legs. Behind the dog he sees two humanoid shapes. He rubs his eyes with his free hand and slowly Daniel and Celeste come into view. So does the over/under shotgun that Daniel has pointed at Man, undoubtedly loaded with birdshot.

              Man estimates Daniel to be no more than twenty feet from him, close enough for the pellets to cause a lot of damage.

              ‘That’s my dog!’ snarls Man. ‘Let him go!’

              ‘And that was our cow!’ says Daniel, gesturing with the shotgun at the hacked cow leg that leans against a nearby tree.

              ‘You going to take my dog’s leg?’ Man edges forward. He knows that Daniel will not move backwards.

              ‘No, but we might blow yours off!’ says Celeste, her silky voice making such a threat sound sensual.

              ‘Not with birdshot, you won’t,’ states Man, calmly.

              ‘It’s solid shot,’ says Daniel with a hint of menace.

‘I doubt it’s even loaded,’ says Man. Daniel smiles incredulously, points the barrels at the ground and pulls the trigger. A root jumps up as soil explodes, leaving a mini-crater of dry earth that resembles cooked mincemeat. Hound barks wildly, runs side to side, testing the grip of his new captor.

Man smiles and drops the knife. He knows that once the guns is pointed elsewhere, he’ll have a better chance.

‘Who are you?’ asks Celeste.

‘Number forty four, it seems,’ says Man. He edges forward again, the rigid half-moon of steel in waistband pressing against his flesh.

‘You’ve been watching us?’ says Celeste.

‘Just one day,’ says Man. ‘I very much admired your cows. And I’ve been very hungry.’

‘They’re ours…’ starts Celeste but is cut off by Daniel:

‘You’ve had your fill, stranger! Enough from us. Now take that leg and leave. Don’t come back. I don’t want to kill you, but I will. You hear me?’

Man nods. Another shuffle forward.

‘Can I have my dog back?’

‘Yes, you can,’ says Daniel.

‘Don’t let go of the lead, whatever you do!’ says Man. ‘He’s sure to run away. Let me come and get him.’

‘You’ll stay where you are, stranger!’ warns Daniel, the gun shaking in his grip.

Man raises his hands, palms down, fingers stretched out and fans them in a calming motion. He learned how to do it from his mother when she had his calm his father. Man looks over Daniel’s shoulder, sees the sun glistening on Celeste’s scar, the slight breeze wafting ringlets over her face.

‘Okay, okay,’ says Man, edging closer, pushing his luck. ‘How about I come slowly to you, and you tie my dog to that tree over there. The skinny one.’ Man motions with his head and Daniel falls for it, looks away. Man has half a second, probably less but knows it has to be done. He’s seen people like these two before. They act honourably, then shoot you in the back when you walk away, string your body up from a tree to let crows feast in the beating sun, a warning to those who travel by. Man remembers the seeing the birds, black as night, prehistoric beasts, fighting over the torn shards of an optic nerve. His eyes belong in his head. And he’ll do what he must to ensure that they stay there.

In a single bound Man leaps forward, rolls over his shoulder and stands within two feet of Daniel. His left hand flashes into his waistband while his right hand parries the shotgun away. The karambit moves like a silver ghost, splits the skin on the back of Daniel’s forearm, severing flesh and tendon. The shotgun drops to the floor and Man moves behind his victim, jams the tip of the curved blade into his throat and rips swiftly, windpipe tearing in two, the jugular bursting in a vibrant arterial spray.

Hound is loose, running in circles, barking at the human commotion that he will never understand.

Man holds Daniel up, feels his human form turn limp, as Celeste looks on, her face frozen, her mouth open in a silent scream. Man has killed before. Just like Daniel, he’s had too, hand forced by the threat of death. And each time, instead of it getting easier, it weighs heavier in his guts.

Man relinquishes his grip, Daniel’s body slumping to the ground like a sack of fresh meat. Man looks at Celeste, looks at her scar and into those eyes and he knows before she does what she’s going to do. She’s done it before. It’s been that way since the world changed.

Her sinewy body lunges forward, hands reaching for the over/under. No time to grieve. That comes later. Or at least it’s supposed to.

He takes one step, swings his right leg back as if he’s about to take a penalty kick, then rushes it forward until the red canvas connects with a petit jawline. Her head snaps back like a Pez dispenser; the world as she knows it, the farmhouse, the cows, the lush green fields, the love she has for her child, whirling together in a centrifugal cosmos.

Man walks to her, watching Hound out of the corner of his eye, just in case he decides to bite. He kneels beside her, lays the karambit on the floor. He cannot do it the same way as Daniel. No, not for this beauty. Quick, warm, like falling into the deep sleep. He rolls her dazed body over, puts his left palm across the back of her skull, fingers pointing to her right, and loops his right arm around her neck until the hand rests on his left bicep. At this angle he can’t look into her eyes but he imagines them, bulging from their sockets, her instinct to survive clawing like an animal trapped under ice. The world, the reality we are born into is there but just out of reach and slowly, slowly, slowly the darkness creeps in. And Man sees her eyes in his mind, her body writhing, her pink scar turning blue, and he sees her letting go, her hands forming fists and folding over her chest, making peace with her end of days.

‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers. ‘I’m so, so sorry.’

Hound growls as Man rolls her body over, drags her next to her lover.

‘Shut up!’ snarls Man and the dog listens. Sits down on its hind legs, head hung low. ‘Don’t give me that look. It had to be done. I’ll make it right. I’ll give them their send off. Don’t you worry about that! Can’t just leave them here!’

Man picks the karambit off the floor, wipes it on Celeste’s t-shirt and puts it in his waistband. He walks back the smouldering camp fire and he can feels his hand starting to shake, worse than his grandfather’s used to when he developed the disease. He feels the bile, the salted globules forming in his gut, ready to make their way to the surface.

And he pukes. Violently, loudly, onto the ashen fire so that small cloudy puffs explode into the atmosphere, crowding his streaming eyes. He falls back on to the ground and his body convulses. He turns his head and sees Hound sniffing the sputum, licking cautiously and then eating it.

                            *******************

Man stands over a crying infant girl, a spade he found in the barn clamped in his right hand. He looks at her in confusion; not at why she is crying or what she wants or how to care for her. No, he’s done that before, prides himself on holding on to the knowledge. He’s confused at what to do with the child. He’s taken two lives today, two names wiped from the hell they now call Earth. He’s not keen on adding another.

Hound sits next to him, muzzle off, sniffing through a prison-like cot. His tail wags, circling as he savours the child’s scent. Man knows that dogs have always made great companions and guardians of families. But that was in another time. Hound is battle-hardened, bred to hunt and kill and savage. Man will keep them apart for the time being.

                            **********************

Man digs. A worn out spade thwacks against toughened earth. The job is taking longer than he expected.

Eventually he finishes, a wide shallow grave roughly a hundred yards into the forest. The corpses tumble in, Daniel and then Celeste, the latter falling face down on Daniel, arms open wide, ready for the everlasting embrace.

As he fills the grave in he whimpers under his breath, devastated at the world and the life he sees before him. Everything has changed so much since the lights went out and now, killing is the solution to everyday problems. Man knows that humans are primed for such action but after thousands of years of acting on instinct they had developed a sense of society and democracy. He knows that his ownspecies has evolved in such a way that it protests its base reactions and for most of these human creatures the regression has been hard, often fatal.

But necessary.

The bodies are covered with soil and man debates with himself as to whether or not he should mark the grave. He doesn’t want any ne’er-do-wells coming across a free meal. After a little deliberation he decides against it and trundles back to the farm house, Hound in tow, the spade clinking and jumping as it hits against rocks. Man looks at the paddock, sees a row of cows, maybe eight, all hanging their heads over the wall, looking up at him one by one, their eyes hinting at scandal. Hound lunges to attack the beasts but is pulled back.

‘Stop that,’ says Man, the vigour in his voice having diminished. ‘Stop it, right now.’ Hound takes heed and stops, trots by Man’s side. Finally, after months of being on the run, of fighting the canine for its affection, they seem to be on a mutual ground. As he smiles, a thought smashes its way into his mind: they cannot stay at the farm for long. If he found the bloody place then his hunters will find it. He’ll stay a week, maybe two. It should give him enough time to decide what to do with the child.

                            ********************

Man sits, eating. The sun has retreated and darkness has engulfed the land. Sat in an old, wooden high chair is the infant girl, crying a eulogy for her dead mother. Hound is tied to a table leg next to Man, a safe distance from the screaming youngster.

Only a few candles flicker in the darkness; the fire does not burn any longer. From a great distance, the orange glow of a wood fire can be seen. Man doesn’t want that. He only wants to eat and sleep in peace.

He managed to boil some rainwater over the fire while it was burning; he found a tank at the rear of the house. Although lukewarm, he drinks it, along with a mug of homemade beetroot wine.

As the rainwater was boiling he threw some root vegetables in, foraged from a multitude of patches past the barn. When the potatoes, turnip and carrots were soft, he mashed them up in a bowl, waited for them to cool and tried feeding the baby girl. Her face wrinkled and her mouth contorted as he attempted to plunge in spoon after spoon of mushed veg, most of it ending up on the floor.

Man holds his mug up, says ‘cheers’ to the little girl and drinks the purple wine. He hopes that like the dog, the child will relent. She’s young enough to be moulded into something else, young enough to forget about the warmth of her mother and father’s love. Man searched high and low to find a name for her but to no avail. A new life, a new name. That’s how it goes.

‘Emma,’ says Man, directing the suggestion at Hound. ‘What do you reckon?’ The dog is sat patiently, his mangy paw held out, begging for some beef. Man obliges him, watches the dog’s black eyes glow as meat enters his mouth.

‘Emma is nice. My girl was called Emma. I never told you that, did I?’ The dog looks up, mouth wet with saliva, the patched paw rising again. ‘I keep forgetting that we don’t know each other very well. Emma it is, though.’

Man turns to the infant, the newly christened Emma and she cries even louder.

‘Don’t think she’s a fan,’ Man says to Hound.

The dog growls lowly, a reminder that he is after some more beef.

‘Okay, okay, you’re lucky I heard you with all that noise over there.’

And Emma cries.

                            *********************

Standing over Emma’s cot, Man smiles. He’s watching her sleep, her tiny ribcage rising and falling with each breath.

She cried herself to sleep. An old trick that Man’s used before. They all get tired eventually.

Emma’s room is large for a girl of her age. It is dust covered and the floor is strewn with battered toys. The window is boarded up, only the tiniest sliver of light squeezes its way in. Looking at the state of this room Man is of the opinion that Emma used to sleep with her parents.

Man slept in the master bedroom, the one belonging to Daniel and Celeste. It took him a few hours to settle, to get used to the bouncing embrace of the mattress, but then sleep took him and he dreamed, an alternate world where everything is safe and beautiful and painless. He dreamed of Claire and Emma, living together as a happy family in the farmhouse, untouched by the outside world, their own paradise to lap up. In his dream they spent their days going for long walks and playing in flower-littered fields and feeding the cows and swimming in rivers and chasing lambs. Indeed, the dream was so vivid and brilliant that when he woke he cried out for them, expecting to see them in bed with him. Then the realisation of reality set in, the ominous cloud that lingers over him every day.